


crawled out of the sea (straight into my arms)

by riots



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Battle Couple, Canon Compliant, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots
Summary: “Just once,” Hawke sighs, “I just want someone to say, ‘please, Hawke! There’s trouble in this well-heated house. Won’t you save my buffet dinner?’”isabela doesn't know why she's still here, in kirkwall, but it might have something to do with hawke, her big hands and her bigger heart.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2019





	crawled out of the sea (straight into my arms)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterpanic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterpanic/gifts).



> once upon a time, in a galaxy far away, i started this for justmarried 2019!! tragically, life got in the way, so now here it is in time for femslash february. i admit this one kind of got away from me, but i hope you still like it!!
> 
> shout out to m&s for cheerleading, always

The Wounded Coast is a bleak little spit of mud and salt, but it’s the closest Isabela gets to the sea anymore, so she’s somehow fond. The tail end of winter has made the wind bitter and harsh, nipping at her nose and cheeks, and a few steps ahead, Hawke’s shoulders are hunched, her ears red. “Just once,” Hawke sighs, “I just want someone to say, ‘please, Hawke! There’s trouble in this well-heated house. Won’t you save my buffet dinner?’”

Isabela is _not_ a soft touch, but anyone with eyes can see that Hawke could use a few good meals. She and Carver are built alike - broad-shouldered and sturdy - but she’s paid the price for the last year of hardship. Behind her easy smile is the pinched tightness of an empty belly, her cheeks a little too sharp. It’s just like Hawke to play the ‘oldest child’ card, shuffling food between her brother and mother. Isabela frowns. Hawke’s oversized heart is going to bite her, sooner or later.

“Oh, but that would be easy,” Isabela tells her, slinging an arm around Hawke’s waist and squeezing. “And you know me: I always like a good challenge.” She lets her voice dip low, her hand lingering, and she’s rewarded by Hawke’s laugh. 

It’s hard to resist touching Hawke, these days. Isabela likes flirting, likes to tease and provoke, but something about Hawke is magnetic. Maybe it’s what draws all the trouble, too. She wears her heart on her sleeve, smiles too easily, and is far too helpful without asking anything in return, and yet, here Isabela is. Months after her situation with Hayder was sorted, she’s still here, following Hawke on her fool’s errands to the Coast. Lost her ship, losing her touch. Maybe she should figure herself out.

Far easier, however, to let her hand slide low enough on Hawke’s back to make Hawke turn to her, gaze dark. “Perhaps we should pick this up when we’re _not_ knee deep in mud and about to throw ourselves at a gang of rogue Qunari?” she suggests.

_Oh_ , now that _is_ promising. “Spoilsport,” Isabela sighs. “Doesn’t that just make it all that much more exciting? All those rippling muscles.” Nothing like the adrenaline of a good fight, after all. She switches tactics, and targets. “Carver knows what I mean.”

It’s a low blow, one designed particularly to make him fluster, a patchy flush racing up his throat. “No, I don’t,” he insists, to her delight. “I - why would I - I don’t know what you mean!” She loves to do this, even if Carver is such an easy target it almost isn’t even fun anymore. “Shut up!”

“Ooh,” Isabela purrs, grinning at Hawke. “Someone’s defensive.”

“So fickle, Isabela,” Hawke chides. They’re still hip to hip, and Hawke is a big, warm presence against her side. “To throw me away so quickly, and for my brother, no less!” The barb is gentle, but there’s an edge of truth to it. It draws Isabela’s eyes back to Hawke, makes her arch an eyebrow. “I’m wounded, truly.”

Isabela feels that giddy rush of possibilities opening up, of knowing she’s got one foot in the door. She’d thought it was all in good fun but perhaps - well, perhaps it could be a lot _more_ fun now. She opens her mouth to reply, but she’s interrupted by Hawke’s elbow to her side, throwing her to the ground. 

A spear whistles through the air where they’d been just a moment ago. She blinks at Hawke, sprawled in the cold sand on the other side of the path, and Hawke laughs. “Well,” she says. “I suppose I shouldn’t have tempted fate with that. I’d rather not actually be wounded.”

Carver throws himself between the two of them and the enormous Tal Vashoth warrior already readying his sword. Behind him, Anders swings his staff, preparing to attack. “Then get up, maybe?” Carver says. 

“Alright, alright,” Isabela says, scrambling nimbly to her feet. She kicks Hawke’s staff back towards her. “Keep your shirt on.”

A fireball roars through the air above them, carving through the approaching Tal Vashoth. “No, Isabela,” Anders says patiently. “That’s the Qunari, not Carver.”

Hawke accepts the hand Isabela holds out to her, standing tall and raising her staff. Lightning crackles across her broad knuckles, up her arms to halo around her head. She looks like something cast from a storm, bright and deadly. It’s thrilling. “Alright,” Hawke says, and she nods to Isabela. “Let’s go.”

Isabela needs no further encouragement. Her palms find her blades, weighted and ready, and she darts into the fray.

She will always love a duel best, love the contest and the intimacy of it, the prize of winning, but there’s something to be said about the type of fight Hawke finds them. The Tal Vashoth are big, but they’re slow too, carrying weapons to match. One swings a sword at her, both hands wrapped around the heavy hilt, and Isabela dodges with ease, diving under his arm and jabbing her knives up, hard. Even if the man had been heavily armoured, a dagger into the soft spot of the armpit would have taken him down, no contest. She’s already shifting past him as he groans, his breath a wet gurgle as he drops to his knees and falls.

Behind her, Hawke is alight with electricity. Anders has a quieter sort of magic, prefers the healing side of things, but you always know precisely where Hawke is, and it’s usually right in the thick of it. Isabela whirls back to Hawke’s side, crossing her daggers to catch a spear before it can hit either of them. “Thanks,” Hawke says breathlessly, and for one brief moment, Isabela considers leaning in to kiss her.

Tragically, now is not the time, what with the rest of the Tal Vashoth mercenaries tearing down the hill towards them. “I’m getting bored,” Isabela says. Before them, Carver barrels into a spear-thrower and knocks him to the ground. “Shall we finish this?”

“Let’s,” Hawke agrees, and she lifts her staff again.

Despite the size of the crowd, it isn’t long before the four of them are the only ones standing. Carver nudges one of the bodies, frowns when it grunts, and puts a sword through its throat. “Well,” Anders says. “That was bracing.”

“Oh yes,” Isabela agrees, casting a sultry look towards Hawke. Her heart is pounding in her chest, there’s blood spattered across her knuckles, and Hawke is smiling back. She feels wonderful. “Just the sort of thing to warm you up on a winter’s day.”

“You need better hobbies,” Carver tells her.

“I don’t think I have much to worry about there,” she says, and that’s all she’s got to do to make his ears turn red. Too easy, truly.

“I - just - stop!” Carver exclaims, and if there’s any proof that he’s eager to escape the conversation, it’s the speed with which he walks to catch up to Anders, already headed back towards the city. Pity. She was having fun.

She’s about to follow the two of them when Hawke’s thumb swipes across the line of her cheek. “Just checking,” Hawke says, and now _she’s_ the one blushing. “That you weren’t injured, of course.”

It’s an opening, and Hawke is standing too close and looking too beautiful for Isabela to let it pass. “You know I’m teasing, right?” she says. “When I flirt with Carver. I’m not serious.”

Hawke suddenly finds the worn tips of her boots a far more engaging subject. “You’re both adults,” she says, though she sounds pained. “I don’t make his decisions for him.”

Isabela tucks her hand under Hawke’s chin and lifts it to meet her eye, just to give herself an excuse to touch her. “No, silly. I mean, I would never _actually_ pursue him.” She shrugs. “It’s far too complicated to get involved with two siblings.” And if she’s choosing, she’d always choose Hawke. 

“Ah,” Hawke says, and she tips her head, a smile spreading once more across her hips. “So what you’re saying is, it’s not because I am the better looking sibling. It’s because it’d be _complicated._ ” 

“Oh, come off it,” Isabela scoffs. “It doesn’t have to be either of you, if you keep this up.” 

Before she can dramatically make her exit, Hawke is already reeling her back in, holding her near. “Thank you,” she says, and Isabela frowns.

“For what?” she asks. She takes Hawke’s hand. “I’m being perfectly selfish here. I don’t think Carver’s ever been to bed with a woman, and teaching a man is just so much work.”

“This is truly enough talk about my brother in the bedroom,” Hawke says firmly, and she lets Isabela lace their fingers together as they walk back to the city in the cold air, smiling together.

-

“Please, Aveline,” Hawke says again. They round the corner of the dimly lit Lowtown street, boots loud against the rough cobble. “Mother is making _plans_ for me for Wintersend.” The light from a window illuminates the grimace that twists her lips. “Some tragically boring son of Duke So-and-so is coming for dinner and I _need_ an escape.”

Aveline is, predictably, unmoved. “Leandra is a friend, Hawke. I won’t lie to her for you.” Lowtown has been much quieter since Aveline took over the guard, but she still rests her hand on the pommel of the sword at her hip, always at the ready.

“Especially when it’s that unbelievable,” Varric scoffs. “Hawke, no one would hire _you_ for a spy mission.” He shakes his head. “Not one of your best attempts. Should’ve come to me for help.”

Hawke slumps, the heel of her staff dragging against the street. “Don’t be a fool, Varric,” she says. “My mother’s a smart woman. She knows better than to trust a word out of your mouth.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Hawke.” Isabela says, sweeping an arm around Hawke’s waist. “I’ll save you! Your dashing pirate belle to the rescue.” After all, Isabela finds the whole situation a bit tasteless. She likes Hawke’s mother, she always has, but the woman’s best intentions don’t make it a better idea. Everyone should be free to make their own decisions, and if Hawke has decided to forgo a proper marriage for a casual agreement with a pirate who’s good with her tongue, she should be allowed to. Isabela is _very_ good at what she does, after all.

Hawke’s hand settles on Isabela’s hip in return. “Hmm,” she says. “I’m not certain Hightown is ready for one of your rescues,” she says. “Certainly not Duke What’s-his-name. Heart attacks all round.” Isabela loves the smile that stretches across Hawke’s lips. “We should do it.”

“Any idea of hers is a bad one,” Aveline points out with the air of a woman who knows she will be ignored. She’s right. Isabela has no need for her negativity right now.

“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Isabela tells her. “I have _wonderful_ ideas. No one should have to suffer through a boring dinner with some dull noble. Ugh.”

Hawke is watching Isabela, her eyes alight with a kind of affection that makes Isabela squirm, heavy and warm. “My hero,” she says, voice too soft, and Isabela is aghast to discover that her ears are hot. She shifts her shoulders uneasily and hooks her arm in Hawke’s to distract her. “That’s the worst part of it all. I’m certain he’s dull as dishwater. Shouldn’t people with so much money at least be _interesting_?”

“I don’t know,” Isabela says. “There are things to do in Hightown, if you know where to look.” 

Ahead of them, Aveline sighs and rubs her temples. “Maker preserve me,” she murmurs, and Varric laughs.

“You don’t only love me for my body, do you, Bela?” Hawke’s affecting a dramatic pout, but she’s doing that thing she does, where a joke means something more than just the words that she says. Isabela watches their boots on the cobblestones, her eyebrows furrowed. She’s not fond of when people don’t just say what they _mean_ , but Hawke doesn’t sound bitter, or even sad, simply curious. Isabela wonders when she learned the nuance of Hawke’s voice like this, and shies away from examining that thought.

“But it’s _such_ a nice body,” she purrs instead, and she looks at Hawke from the corner of her eye, one long, lingering look from head to toe and back again. “I just can’t help myself.”

“As much as I love where this is going, and I really do,” Hawke says, and now her voice is quieter. Intimate. “You do know that we can spend time together and _not_ have sex.” She looks amused.

It’s really not what Isabela had been expecting. She tips her head, her grip on Hawke’s arm loosening. “Well, yes,” she says, although there’s a part of her that is lying. They’ve a comfortable arrangement, like this, and Isabela is well aware that feelings of _any_ kind can complicate it. But she’s touched, somehow, to know that Hawke wants her around, no matter what they get up to. “But -”

Her words are cut off by Aveline stumbling backwards into them, shield barely holding off a thug. Aveline grits her teeth and shoves him back, sends him sprawling into the street and open for a volley of Varric’s bolts. “I _knew_ this route was too quiet lately,” she says, and then she’s squaring her shoulders, raising her shield, and lunging out to take care of the rest of them. A woman-shaped battering ram, indeed.

After all of the practice over the years, it’s so easy to fall into a rhythm with Hawke behind her. This gang is poorly organized and barely armoured, a bunch of drunks with a big idea to take Hawke down. More and more of them have popped up since they came back from the Deep Roads laden down with loot, and it’s getting tiresome. It’s not even _fun_ when they don’t provide much of a challenge. 

At last they’re left with a quiet street and several men groaning on the ground, and Isabela steps neatly over one to catch Hawke’s arm again. She feels the hair on the back of her neck rise with the residual crackle of energy around Hawke. “I know,” she says. 

Hawke’s brow furrows in bewilderment. “I beg your pardon?” she says, lifting her robes and frowning at the blood on the cloth. Behind them, Aveline is going through the pockets of the leader for identification and Isabela can vaguely hear Varric realize he’s played Diamondback with him. Of course he has.

“I know I can see you without sex,” Isabela says. “Obviously.”

“Do you?” Hawke asks. Her gaze is even and curious. “Please, don’t misunderstand: the sex is _wonderful_.” She hesitates, her tongue between her teeth for a moment. “But so are you.”

It’s the kind of flattery that Isabela knows she should accept as her due, but something about it takes her aback. It’s been a long time since she’s had friends like Hawke and the others, people not serving under her or with the type of secrets she herself holds close to her chest. Hawke stands in front of her, dark mud hemming her robes, and she looks at Isabela like she sees everything and she’s still here. “Of course the sex is wonderful,” Isabela says, but she’s stalling for time. They both know it. 

“Isabela.” 

She hates it when people pin her with their feelings, make her talk about these things. Still, she knows it’s not something Hawke will drop. Fereldan is in her blood, and she’s like a Mabari with a bone when the mood strikes her. “I’m not good with talking about these things,” she admits. She turns to look over her shoulder and Varric catches her eye, giving her a nod as he gently herds Aveline to the far end of the alley. Out of earshot. Uncommonly charitable from a man who loves to use his friends as fodder for his writing.

“I hadn’t the slightest idea,” Hawke says, eyes mischievous. 

“Oh, stop it, you,” Isabela says, knocking her hand against Hawke’s solid arm. “You’re my friend, Hawke,” she continues, and tries to ignore the sinking feeling she gets when Hawke flinches, just a little. “Of course I know we can spend time together without a tumble.”

“You’re always welcome in my home,” Hawke says, with that terrible open-faced honestly that makes Isabela’s feet itch. “Tumble or no. I just. Wanted to be sure that we understood each other.”

It’s too much for one night. “Oh, I think I _understand you_ perfectly.”

“Naturally,” Hawke says dryly, but the tension has eased from her spine. “I’m glad we talked.”

Isabela pulls her in for a squeeze. “I hated every minute of it,” she admits, “but I am too.”

“Look at you!” Hawke says. “Is that character growth I see?”

“Perish the thought,” Isabela says, with relish. “After all, we’re going to the Hanged Man to drink it all off, are we not?”

“Only if you pay your own tab, Rivaini.” Varric steps up next to them, dusting off his front. He sticks a thumb back at Aveline, still back with the thugs. A few are sitting up now, and she’s managed to wrangle a few of her guards in to help her deal with the aftermath. The big girl is out for the night, it seems. “Diamondback?”

“I’m going to get back those sovereigns, just you watch,” Isabela says. Hawke hasn’t made a move to free herself from Isabela’s grip. “Shall we, sweet thing?”

“Lead the way,” Hawke agrees, and they leave Aveline and the gang behind.

-

It’s raining. It seems appropriate for the mood. 

Hawke has been silent the entire evening, which isn’t unusual, not lately. No one blames her, of course - it’s only been a few months since her mother’s death - but they all feel the loss. Isabela thinks it’s like someone turned off the sun. Everything is duller and darker and quieter. She hates it. 

Still, she’s not sure how to help. They’re all doing their best, of course: Varric keeps her busy, sniffing out trouble to keep her from moping in her empty home. Aveline keeps the Seneschal off her back. Merrill brings her flowers, stolen from the Viscount’s gardens. Frankly, Isabela isn’t sure what _she_ can do. A tumble feels a mite inappropriate, but it’s what she’s best at. So mostly, she jumps at the chance to follow Hawke on her jobs, even if all she can offer is to watch her back. It’s better than nothing.

They’ve ended up at the docks tonight, and it’s absolutely pissing down. They’re to meet with some contact of Varric’s, a man who, frankly, sounds shadier than even Isabela would work with, but he’s got some sort of information on the trafficking of slaves through the warren of Darktown. If nothing else, they’ll at least get something out of him before they slit his throat. Bloody slavers.

Hawke stalks ahead of them, uncaring of the rain. She’s left her customary robes behind, trading them for a light leather jacket that is already drenched through, though Isabela supposes it at least won’t weigh her down like the robes would. Merrill walks at her side, hood up to shield herself from the downpour, and Fenris is at her heel, pale hair plastered to his skull, expression even more sour than usual. Isabela doesn’t blame him, really. If she’d her way, they’d all be cozied up by the fire at the Hanged Man with a pint and a hand of cards. But, here Hawke is, so here Isabela is as well. Tragic, truly.

Their contact is hunched into a doorway, a ratty little man with one of those pointy Tevinter beards and the kind of pretentious tip to his chin that makes Isabela loathe him instantly. It’s uncharitable, but she does hope they get to kill him. He seems like a prat. She glances at Hawke, but her face is unreadable, set into the same stony gaze it’s been in for weeks. Fenris, on the other hand, looks vaguely murderous. Could just be his face, of course.

“Fereldans,” the man sneers as they approach. “Should have known such a provincial type couldn’t possibly figure out how to be on time.” 

“Ooh, no,” Merrill says quietly. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The man dismisses her with a quick flick of his eyes, and Isabela decides that perhaps Fenris has the right of it, with the whole murdering-all-Tevinters thing. “I hope you have the gold,” he says, and he speaks only to Hawke, barely looking at the rest of them. “If I have to come out to this shit hole of a city for some up-jumped dog lord one more time -”

Hawke moves so quickly Isabela barely has time to get out of her way. The odious Tevinter is slammed against the door, Hawke’s arm pressing hard against his throat, and Hawke’s eyes - that’s the worst of it. There’s none of the fire Isabela’s come to expect. There’s just steel and a flat kind of fury. It’s unsettling. This isn’t like her. Isabela would expect this from Fenris, but not Hawke. Not her. It feels wrong.

“Tell me what I need to know,” Hawke says, and Isabela can’t help but look over at Fenris, lips pursed. Even he looks concerned, brows tipped down under his rain-soaked hair. “Quickly, now,” Hawke says, pressing harder, and the man’s hands scrabble against the door, his breath coming out in a wheeze. “Before this up-jumped dog lord loses her patience.”

“Hawke,” Merrill begins, but Hawke shrugs off the hand she lays on her shoulder, unmoved.

The man is still struggling, eyes wide and panicked, and Fenris pushes his hair out of his face. “He can’t answer you if he can’t speak, Hawke,” he says. She doesn’t even look as though she hears him.

“Hawke!” Isabela says, leaning in so that Hawke can’t avoid her, and this time Hawke’s gaze flicks to the side, meet hers. Isabela can’t read what’s going on in Hawke’s face, and that’s the most alarming thing of all. Hawke’s always been an open book, a terrible liar, and for her to look so stony, so blank - it’s disconcerting. 

Abruptly, Hawke backs off, and the Tevinter contact’s heels thud into the ground as he rubs furiously at his throat. He’s obviously scared, already puffing himself up to squawk at them in indignance, but one look at the three of them (Merrill with her staff in hand and dark magic curling around her fingers, Isabela’s feigned casual palm to her daggers, Fenris looming and furious) and Hawke herself, and he deflates, sagging back against the door.

“Fine,” he snaps, and he fumbles in his ornate purse, coming up with a couple of folded papers. A glimpse of ink tells Isabela that at least one is a map. “Bloody animals. If it weren’t such a good market for new flesh I swear I’d never come to this city again.”

Hawke takes the papers from him and hands them to Merrill, who squirrels them away under her cloak. “Thank you,” she says, a parody of manners.

“And my coin?” the man asks, snapping his fingers. “Unbelievable. Fereldans.”

Hawke doesn’t even look back. She simply jerks her chin at Fenris and he lights up the dock, all lyrium fury. Isabela turns away as the man gasps and chokes, watching the stiff line of Hawke’s shoulders. The man was a slaver but this is...a bit much. For Hawke, if nothing else. 

“Hawke,” Isabela says, catching her by the elbow and pulling her to a stop. “Wait a moment.”

Lips pursed, Hawke tries to tug her arm free, but Isabela isn’t easily shaken. “We have a job to do,” Hawke reminds her. She won’t look Isabela in the eye. Instead, she focuses on the doorway, where Fenris is going through the contact’s pockets for anything else that’ll be of further use.

“It’s pissing down,” Isabela points out. “No one’s doing anything in this weather, except maybe the rats. And us.” She swings Hawke to face her, gently, stepping towards her. “We can take a second to breathe.”

Hawke shakes her head, laugh bitter. “I don’t want a second to breathe,” she says, voice brittle.

In the doorway, Fenris straightens, pocketing a silvery trinket to sell later, and Merrill props herself up on her staff, nodding encouragingly. Isabela isn’t certain how this job fell to her. For a moment, she wishes that she had Varric’s gift with words. But she just has herself. She sighs. Maker, but she’s bad at this.

“You can’t keep this up,” Isabela says. “You almost killed the man before he told us what we needed to know. That’s not like you!”

This time, Hawke snatches her arm out of Isabela’s grip faster than she can stop it. “What does it matter?” she snaps, whirling away. “We got what we needed, and a slaver is dead. It all worked out in the end.”

Her voice is all sharp edges, her shoulders tensed, her head ducked down in the rain. Isabela aches. “What do you need?” she asks. “I know - I know you’re hurting. With your mother - I know it’s hard. So tell me what I can do. How can I help you? Please.”

Hawke rounds on her. “Oh, are we doing feelings now?” she asks, so cruel that Isabela takes a step back, mouth snapping shut. She’s not expecting the way it cuts right through her, and for one long moment she’s wordless, wounded. 

Then comes the anger. “I’m trying to help you!” Isabela flares, cheeks hot even in the cold rain. “You’re the one out here choking a man because you can’t be bothered to talk about your feelings!” She knows grief can be unpredictable, but she never signed on for this, this cruelty and pain. She wipes fruitlessly at the rain over her eyes and spins around, teeth gritted. She should walk away, right now. She should’ve left long ago anyway. Serves her right.

She’s half a breath from walking back to the Hanged Man when Hawke breaks. “Shit,” Hawke says, and she crumples, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Shit, Bela, I’m sorry. That was -” She shakes her head furiously. “Shit.” She blinks up at Isabela through the rain. “I can’t - if I give myself a second, if I start thinking about - ” She swallows hard. “I don’t know what to _do_ without her.”

Isabela drops to a crouch, holding out her hands. Hawke curls her cold fingers into hers. “It’s shit,” she says, tired. “It’s absolute shit.” She squeezes Hawke’s hands. “But you’re not alone, sweet thing. I’m - I’m here.” She glances up at the doorway, and for once, Fenris’ eyes are open and concerned. Merrill gives a little wave. “We’re all here.” Hawke sucks in a shaky breath and laughs, the first time Isabela’s heard it in months, and she leans in, pressing her forehead to Hawke’s.

“And,” Isabela continues, “ _and_ , the Hanged Man is up there.” She stands, and she pulls Hawke up with her. Hawke comes readily, and Isabela has to hide her shock at how much Hawke has shrunk. Like she’d been holding herself up with sheer force of will, and this is all that’s left. This tiny little spark of Hawke, and she’s all in Isabela’s hands. Without thinking, Isabela curls her fingers around Hawke’s jaw. “Let me look after you.” She almost wants to take the words back as soon as they leave her mouth, but she knows she can’t. She’s terrible with these things, but she knows she was too honest. Now that Hawke has heard it, she can’t ever take it back. There’s a terrifying freedom in that.

Hawke’s eyes are tired and wary. “Will you be buying, then?” she jokes weakly, and Isabela almost sags in relief. Her Hawke is still in there somewhere. 

Fenris peers over their shoulders, squinting at them. “A joke?” he asks, offering up a tiny smile. “It’s been some time since I heard one of those.” Isabela relinquishes one of Hawke’s hands and is astonished when Fenris, prickly Fenris, takes it. He’s shed his atrocious, pointy gauntlet, and he presses his thumb against Hawke’s wrist for a moment, brushing over the veins, dark under her cold skin. 

“Oh, you’ve heard plenty,” Merrill chides, and when Fenris steps away, she slides up under Hawke’s arm. She rests her cheek against Hawke’s shoulder for a moment. “You’ve just no sense of humour.” Isabela takes Hawke’s other side. It’s not - she knows Hawke can stand on her own two feet. It just seems right, tucked against Hawke’s ribs, her cold bare arm against Merrill’s thin one, the two of them bracketing Hawke with what little warmth they can provide and Fenris a step or two behind. 

They make it all the way to the Hanged Man, no pesky interruptions, and as Merrill opens the door and calls out to Varric, Hawke pulls Isabela in close, one big, chilled hand around the back of her neck. “Thank you,” she says, raw and honest and true, and Isabela kisses her, because it’s the only answer that she has.

-

Isabela hasn’t the faintest idea why she’s _here_.

Well, she’s in this Maker-forsaken cave because Hawke asked, and Isabela is finding herself frighteningly unable to say no to her now. Loose rock crunches under her boots and she peers into the poorly lit cavern, trailing after the rest of them. Andraste’s knickers, she hates these caves. Why is it that the beasts always have to hide away in the dark? 

“Do you see anything?” Merrill calls to Hawke, feet nimble and sure even here. “I can never understand those old scrolls, but the map certainly lead us here.” She presses a hand to the stone wall and looks up to where sunlight slants down across the cavern. It’d be a bit pretty, if Isabela didn’t know what awaited them down here.

She still can’t quite believe she came back, and from the way that Hawke keeps throwing looks over her shoulder at her, quick and warm, neither can she. Isabela was _free_. She had the tome. She had all she needed to keep Castillon off her back and escape, finally, from Kirkwall. Except - except, somehow, escape wasn’t what she’d wanted, anymore. She’d been half a day away from the city, guilt settling low in her gut, when she realized she had to go back. Dread pirate Isabela, now with a conscience. What _would_ people say?

And she’d been - well, afraid. She’d walked away from Hawke, left her to deal with the mess of the Qunari in her wake. More importantly, at least to her, was how she’d walked away from them. From whatever fragile thing was sparking up between them. She’d no idea if Hawke would forgive her, or even speak to her again.

But when she’d walked into the Viscount’s throne room and Hawke had looked up, the look she’d given her, _oh_. Hope and relief and happiness, nothing Isabela had expected, nothing that she’d deserved. It had made her want to earn it. 

So here she was. At Hawke’s back, because she asked, and because, startlingly enough, Isabela wants it. After years in this city, she’s letting some old dreams slip loose. Isabela wasn’t afraid of getting hurt - danger was what made these things fun. You walked the knife’s blade because sometimes you slipped, and that was part of the appeal. No, she was afraid of hurting Hawke. Beautiful, bright, honest Hawke, with her easy smiles and her too-big heart. She couldn’t bear to think that she might be the one to hurt her.

And wasn’t that the biggest sign of all, that she was well and truly sunk? It’s been years since Isabela looked at anyone that isn’t Hawke. She’d say she’s made a right mess of things, except it doesn’t feel like that, at all. It feels like Hawke is patiently standing there, waiting, her heart in her hands, ready for Isabela to take the cue.

And maybe now, Isabela is afraid less that she’ll break it, but that she’ll hold it too tightly.

“Nothing yet,” Hawke says. She’s standing at the top of a rock outcropping, leaning heavily on her ornate staff, peering down into the darkness. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for these demons to give a bit of warning?” Her eyes slide over to meet Isabela’s, tentative and warm. “Before they spring up on us, I mean. It’s getting a bit old.”

Hawke’s never held a grudge in her life (except that one time with Carver and her boots, but siblings don’t count). It’s why, even though Isabela is the one who put her foot in her mouth, who nearly left them all for dead to save her own hide, Hawke is the looking back at her, hopeful and wistful. She holds out one gloved hand, and Isabela takes it, stepping up next to her. From here, they can see the shadowed depths of the cavern, and Varric cursing under his breath as he steps in something unpleasant. 

“Surprises are for parties,” Isabela agrees, and her heart pounds as Hawke’s smile broadens in delight. “Not reanimated corpses.”

“I’d think a walking corpse would be quite surprising at a party, though,” Merrill muses as she climbs to meet them. “I suppose it wouldn’t be terribly pleasant. Ooh, unless it had a fun hat!” She rests a hand on Isabela’s wrist as they scout for the marked point on the map, and Isabela has a moment of deep gratitude. Leaving Hawke behind had been night unbearable, but that hadn’t meant she hadn’t regretted leaving the rest of them, either. Merrill, for her part, had tactfully avoided asking her about what had happened before they’d confronted the Arishok, and the way she still reaches for Isabela’s hand, lets her call her ‘kitten’ and asks for dirty jokes - it’s such a relief. She supposes if any of them know about making terrible mistakes, it’s probably Merrill, but up until she was riding away from the only home she’d known for years, she hadn’t realized just how much she’d miss her, too.

“I do like a good hat,” Isabela says, throwing a wink to Merrill, who scrunches up her face in laughter.

Behind them, Varric is grumbling his way up the outcropping. “Seven years,” he says conversationally. “After seven years, you’d think we’d find everything there is in these damn caves.” He reaches them and points a finger at Hawke. “Next time, bring Broody. You know I hate being underground.”

“Just trying to keep you in touch with your heritage,” Hawke teases, and Varric shakes his head, a smile stretching across his lips even as he tries to scowl.

“I see it!” Merrill calls, delighted, and she’s scrambling down the rocks like a shot, graceful and easy. “There. You see? That big rock down there. Looks like a dog.” She pauses to frown. “How have I never noticed that before?”

Hawke begins the descent after her, but Varric catches Isabela’s arm before she can escape. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m glad you came back, Rivaini.” 

He’s got no idea just how much she agrees with him. “Me too,” she says, softer than she intends. It’s all a bit much for her, so she pats Varric’s hand. “You still owe me five sovereigns.”

Nothing slides by Varric, and this doesn’t either. His eyes do that warm, fond thing they do, and he raises his eyebrows. “ _I_ owe _you_?” he scoffs. “I think you’ve got that a bit backwards.”

Ahead of them, Merrill lets out a high pitched yell as a corpse resurrects itself from the mud and the shale and Hawke swings her staff to the ready. “Seems we’ll have to play a few games to get it straight,” Isabela muses.

Varric offers her his elbow, and she takes it, the two of them sauntering down to where Hawke is casting lightning across the whole cavern, the ground shaking with Merrill’s earth magic. “Seems we will,” Varric agrees, and they descend into the fray, unhurried.

-

Isabela is soaked in the entrails of a giant spider, ichor dripping down the blades of her daggers to her elbows, when Hawke says it. “You should move in,” she tells her, all big blue puppydog eyes, and Isabela nearly drops her weapons. It’s a bit of a problem, considering the mabari sized spider scuttling towards them, but she manages to gather herself in time to roll out of the way, accumulating an impressive smear of something odious across her shoulders. 

“I should _what_?” Isabela demands, wiping futilely at the mess on her. Andraste’s knickers, why’re spiders always such a pain to fight? “Hawke.” Ahead of them, Aveline lets out a mighty roar and brings her shield down on one of the creatures, crumpling it beneath her might. Sebastian has perched above them, letting out volley after volley of deadly arrows. Isabela spares a second to frown at him. _His_ white armour is spotless. 

Hawke, naturally, is already halfway down the length of the mining shaft, calling down a cloud of lightning that snaps from one round body to another. “It was just a suggestion!” she says, whapping the nearest spider across the head with the butt of her staff. “I just thought - well, you already spend most nights there. Why not just stay?”

Why not just stay, indeed. It makes a practical sort of sense, honestly: if Isabela moved in with Hawke, she wouldn’t have to keep paying for her room at the Hanged Man. She’d have a roof over her head and a beautiful woman in her bed, and really, isn’t that all a body needs? Except - well. It all feels just a hair too domestic. A little too much like playing house. She - she cares for Hawke, a great deal, and if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be here. But since the day Zevran helped her cut herself loose, Isabela has been nothing but _free_ , and something about this step just feels a little too suffocating for her.

The spiders provide a welcome distraction, an excuse all in themselves as they work hard to dispatch them. They’re looking for a smuggler’s den, some stash hidden far inside the warrens of old mining tunnels, but so far, all they’ve found is spiders. The stone walls cut the bitter cold of the winter air, especially this deep down, but that doesn’t mean it’s been a pleasant trip out of the city, and Isabela’s about ready to call it a day.

Especially if they run into anymore of these blasted _beasts_. Aveline is pushed into a corner, head down as she makes quick work of one of the twisted little ones that spit, and she doesn’t see the big spider creeping up behind her. Isabela dives in, hacking off a couple of legs as she skids across the stone and jabs one dagger in deep. With one horrifyingly wet noise, the spider collapses, twitching.

“Thank you,” Aveline says.

Isabela throws her a wink. “Don’t mention it, big girl.”

Across the cave, Hawke has managed to get herself sprawled halfway across one of the few remaining creatures, almost riding the stupid beast as it spins in circles, trying to shake her. “She means well,” Aveline says, voice pitched low so only they can hear, and Isabela stares at her a moment, surprised. “It’s not a cage, not to her.” Aveline wipes the flat of her blade on her trousers. “I think she’s lonely.”

Ah. Isabela hadn’t thought of that. She looks up at Hawke, now on the floor next to a spider’s corpse, riddled with arrows, her face streaked with something horrid and her head thrown back in laughter. The two of them often spend the night holed up in Hawke’s bedroom, and Isabela had forgotten the empty room with the locked door, and Carver’s letters, so few and far between. Hawke, of course, has Bodahn and Sandal, and Orana is starting to come out of her shell, but it’s not the same.

It makes sense, then. It’s not as though they’re not serious after all, and as much as that idea scares Isabela, she can’t deny that that’s the truth. What she and Hawke have now, it’s more than a tumble, different than the friendship that grew up between them since that duel so long ago. If she’s honest with herself, it might be the scariest thing she’s ever done. It certainly ranks right up there with ‘faced down the Qunari Arishok and almost certain death’. She’s already hurt Hawke once, and she’s starting to find that she’d never forgive herself if she does it again.

Not that she’d ever say any of this aloud. “That was surprisingly insightful for someone who’s idea of romance involves three goats and a sheaf of wheat,” she says instead, and when Aveline scowls, she laughs. “Thank you.”

Aveline sighs. “That’ll teach me to try to help,” she says, sheathing her sword, and the two of them make their way back to Hawke and Sebastian. 

Hawke beams up at Isabela from the ground. “Not my most graceful moment, I must admit,” she says ruefully, and she takes the sticky hand Isabela proffers, the two of them together levering her up from the ground. “I think I’ll have to burn these robes.”

She’s gracefully pretending that she hadn’t seen Isabela’s panic, which is terribly sweet. Isabela brackets her with her arms. “Anything that gets you out of your clothes,” she tells Hawke, prompting Aveline to sigh again, and that resigned look on Sebastian’s face even as he flushes.

“Shall we continue?” he asks, salvaging a few arrows from the downed spider corpses now littering the floor. “Daylight is limited.”

“Yes,” Aveline agrees firmly. “I’ve rosters to complete when I get back to the barracks.” She looks pointedly at Isabela and Hawke, and Isabela waves for her to precede them, elaborate and magnanimous. 

As the others head away, Isabela waits a beat. “Listen, sweet thing,” she says, and she can see it in the tensing of Hawke’s broad shoulders. She’s bracing for the blow. “Let me think about it, alright?”

It’s not the answer Hawke was expecting. “Oh. Yes, of course. Take your time.” 

Isabela slides off one glove, uses her clean thumb to wipe the ichor off Hawke’s face. “I’m trying not to run away,” she says quietly, and Hawke listens, eyes closed as she leans into the touch. “I told myself I’d never let anything, or anyone tie me down, ever again.” She laughs a little. “I didn’t ever think I’d want to do the tying.”

Hawke smiles at her then, eyes sliding open. “Well,” she says. “You always were better with knots than me.” She throws Isabela a salacious wink and Isabela’s heart lurches traitorously. She’d never known love could be like this.

Hawke wipes a hand clean as best she can with her grubby robes and her fingers link with Isabela’s. As scary as it can feel, sometimes, Isabela hasn’t felt this comfortable with someone in a very long time. She’s getting used to this, to inching closer and closer to the edge, knowing that Hawke will always be there, ready to catch her. It’s thrilling. “Years of practice, love,” Isabela says, and the two of them head deeper into the mine. Time to catch a smuggler. 

-

Kirkwall is in flames, and it feels like the whole city has lost its mind. Isabela won’t soon forget the look on Hawke’s face as she stood over Anders’ body, knife in hand. What a fucking world this is, to lead them here. 

There are too few people here. Hawke’s circle had come, of course - and isn’t that a testament to the bonds she’s built, that Fenris would stand here, in the mage’s retreat, ready to defend their lives? Still, there aren’t enough people. The mages are terrified, clutching their staffs and murmuring to each other, and Orsino paces the floor. Isabela doesn’t like the look in his eyes, one of despair and fear, because he looks like a man who is about to do something very, very stupid. And when mages do stupid things, a lot of people get hurt. It’s not a good sign.

No sane person _likes_ the Gallows, but it’s even more oppressive now. They’ve got what few of the mages they could rally and now all they can do is wait, wait for Meredith to herd the rest of them together so she can wreak her righteous vengeance. Blind woman. It takes one look at these people, shaking and huddled together, to know that they’re not the ones to blame for this madness. Isabela sighs. 

“Well,” Hawke says. She has her arms folded around her staff, her robes still flecked with blood and singed from the long hard fight here. “This is a complete mess.” Her smile is too tight, her shoulders too tense. 

“ _That’s_ a complete understatement,” Isabela says. She checks over her daggers, just to busy her hands, be certain she’s done everything, but she knows it doesn’t mean much. By the time the sun rises tomorrow, they’ll either be dead or they won’t. It’s not likely a scratch in her blade will help either way.

“Not tempted to disappear to Tevinter?” Hawke asks. “Now would be the time, I’d think.” 

She’s not wrong. If Isabela were to leave now, she could slip away from all of this. She’s a pirate, she never asked for a stake in the fight between the Templars and mages. It’s certainly a tempting thought. The problem is, she can’t leave without Hawke, and Hawke, bless her big, gentle heart, would never run from this. She’ll do what she can, and she’ll do it til her dying breath. And so - “No,” Isabela says firmly. She reaches out, curls a hand around Hawke’s chin. “It seems that everything I love is here these days.”

Hawke tips her head forward until her forehead rests against Isabela’s, the two of them breathing the same air. “A part of me wishes you would,” she admits. “Because then I’d know you were safe.”

“I’m not leaving,” Isabela tells her. “If you insist on fighting for some principle or other, I’m going to be right beside you.” She sighs again, straightening. “It figures, doesn’t it? I finally find someone I want to be with, and the templars decide to go crazy and kill everyone.” It seems like everything in this city is conspiring against them. Castillon, the Arishok - they’ve made it through it all. This, though - “Tell me I’m not going to lose you.”

“You won’t.” Hawke unfolds her arms, settling her big hands against Isabela’s wrists. “I promise we’ll get through this.”

Isabela looks around them, at the grim stone walls, the fear on everyone’s faces, the boy weeping in the corner. She’s not so sure. Still, when Hawke says it, like everything else, it makes her _hope_. “We’d better,” she says, low and fierce. “Because I think I want to marry you.”

Hawke stares at her, thunderstruck. “You - you - what? Bela?”

Before she can let the fear creep in and make her take it back, Isabela reaches up to unfasten one of her earrings. “I’m afraid I planned this about as well as anything else, so I haven’t got a ring.” Instead, she presses the gold earring into Hawke’s palm. “Consider this a placeholder. When this is all over, I’ll loot you something big and terribly sparkly.”

Hawke’s fingers close slowly over the earring. “Are you sure?” she murmurs, and Isabela, for one horrible moment, wonders if it’s the wrong move. Suddenly the idea of Hawke saying ‘no’ is about as scary as the Templars about to break down the door. “Bela, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want.”

“I want _you_ ,” Isabela says. She badly wants to fold her hands over Hawke’s, as though she could press the importance of this into her skin. “Now, and always. Isn’t that strange?”

Hands shaking, Hawke laughs. “I’m going to be a pirate’s bride?” she asks wonderingly, and relief floods Isabela and she cups Hawke’s face in her hands, kissing her breathless. “Or a consort. Oh, that does sound fancy.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Isabela says, watching as Hawke lifts the hand with the earring, presses it over her heart. “You’ll be a queen.” At her side, or nothing. It’s all Isabela has ever wanted, if she thinks about it. “So we make it through this.”

“We must,” Hawke agrees. She pulls Isabela to her with her free hand and kisses her in return, joyful and afraid, all at once. “I want that ring.”

“And you’ll get it,” Isabela promises, meaning it right down to her bones. There’s noise starting up outside the doors, voices screaming and the clash of steel on metal. The Templars are here. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Hawke kisses her one last time, secreting the earring away under her robes like a good luck charm. Isabela hopes it works. “So will I,” she says fervently. The doors shake with impact and Isabela slides her knives out of their sheathes as next to her, Hawke raises her staff. She takes a deep breath, and the doors slam open.

-

They marry at sea.

It only seems appropriate. Kirkwall is far behind them, and the Rialto Bay is warm and sunny, the water calm beneath their ship. They’ve got an arch cobbled together at the bow, and the horizon stretches out behind them, flat and blue. If Isabela had an ounce of poetry in her soul, she’d compare the colour to Hawke’s eyes, but she’s not that bad yet, so she doesn’t share it.

Besides, Hawke looks incredible. She’s got a crown of flowers, courtesy of a delighted Merrill, all in shades of pink and yellow to match the long, flowy peach gown she wears. Maker, she’s a sight. Isabela, of course, is wearing white, because the image of purity was just too funny for her to forgo. That’s as far as they got with traditional wedding practices, however. They’ve an Antivan Crow to officiate, and a king parked at the stern, beside the snacks. Zevran throws her a wink under a flower crown of his own. “I must say, my dear, I am flattered that you should choose me for this. It is very lucky I know a Chantry sister who could ordain me.”

Hawke has one bare arm thrown around Varric’s shoulder, chatting with that enormous Qunari that Isabela has yet to meet. She and Varric made such interesting friends in the Inquisition. “It seemed fitting,” Isabela tells Zevran, a half-smile pulling at her lips. “After all, you helped me end the last one.” She watches a ship with no colours glide by, headed further into the Bay.

“So I did.” Zevran takes her hand in his, and his eyes are soft and fond in a way she isn’t used to. “And I am very grateful that this one will not have to proceed in the same manner.”

“I certainly hope not,” Isabela retorts, but she curls her fingers into his. 

Zevran shakes his head and laughs. “My dear,” he says. “Perhaps you should look at where we are. You are the one who asked her, are you not?” He turns her gently to look back at Hawke. “One would have to be blind not to see the way she looks at you.” Hawke’s eyes meet hers then, and Isabela’s chest is filled with such a flood of adoration she can’t stand it. You’d have to be blind to see that Isabela looks back, too.

“Yes, I know,” Isabela says, idly watching the ship turn about, headed back towards them. “It’s all very sickening.” That doesn’t mean she’s not pleased, however. 

“I would never do anything to jeopardize what you have,” Zevran says, kissing her knuckles almost absently. “Do tell me if you need another capable pair of hands, though, hmm?” 

Isabela pushes him. “You’re terrible,” she says. “How would your King feel about that?” Alistair is parked by the snack table, dressed down to blend in. It’s not a particularly _good_ disguise, really, but about half of the guests already know exactly who he is, and the rest who would care, well, they’re not the wiser. When he catches them staring, he raises his drink in a little salute, his other hand busied with a plate piled high with cheese. Fereldans.

“Perhaps we could talk him into joining, yes?” Zevran shrugs. “Being a King is not very exciting, I hear.”

Isabela is readying a response when a solid plank slams down against the rail next to them, wobbling with the weight of a body barreling towards them. “Are they here for you, or for me?” Isabela wonders as the man roars out a battle cry and throws himself onto the ship. A good pirate is never unarmed, of course, and neither is an assassin, so they make quick work of him once he’s on board. Zevran’s blade slides neatly through his throat as Isabela sets an elbow into the man’s gut and flips him back over the railing, splashing into the water below.

Zevran peers across the gap at the unmarked ship that’s pulled up next to them. “I do not think they are mine,” he says. “A bit too, shall we say, rough around the edges.” He plants his feet and hefts up the end of the plank, levering it up as another pirate scrambles towards them. Isabela frowns, reaching out to help him pitch the man off balance and knock the plank into the water. 

There are more, of course. Zevran throws her a wink and then slips to the end of the boat, making his way to Alistair’s side, and lightning wreaths Isabela for a moment. She hears a strangled squawk from behind her and spins to find a pirate jerking and twitching with electricity, stumbling away. The exhilaration sets Isabela’s heart pounding behind her ribs. Now, _this_ is a wedding. She guts him with one quick motion, frowning as blood sprays across her hem, and Hawke steps up behind them. “Did you get me pirates?” Isabela asks, gently sliding her hand across Hawke’s face, checking the blood is just spatter and not a wound.

“I didn’t,” Hawke says ruefully, “though now I’m wishing I had the idea.” 

“Terribly hard to wrap, though,” Isabela muses.

They barely have to lift a finger to finish off the rest of them. Isabela can’t be certain if they recognized Scylla’s Grasp from the work they’ve done, or if the pirates simply thought a wedding would make a soft target, but they’d managed to try to raid the most heavily armed wedding party this side of the Waking Sea. The Qunari is merrily swinging a massive axe, Merrill and the foppish Tevinter are back to back, weaving spells that punt boarders over into the Bay, and Varric is perched by the crow’s nest, knocking shot after precise shot into the pirates. 

“Those Inquisition types aren’t bad,” Isabela tells Hawke, hooking her arm in hers as they watch Carver knock down a pirate with a single, solid punch to the nose. Somewhere in the brawl, Merrill’s crown has gotten dislodged, and Isabela snorts as she watches Fenris, of all people, muscle aside the invading pirates to save it. Even he’s getting into the mood. “I like the Qunari.”

“The Iron Bull,” Hawke supplies. Hearing his name, he looks up, waves a little, then returns to work. “You just like him because he hates shirts.”

“I am a woman of simple tastes,” Isabela agrees, and Hawke laughs, resting her cheek on the top of Isabela’s head. Isabela feels so impossibly fond, of Hawke, of their friends, rallying to clear the deck of unsavory types (at least, the ones not invited). Of her own crew, throwing themselves at the other pirates, roaring their ship’s name. She’s gotten terribly lucky.

It’s short work to clear the deck, and by the time they’ve torn a swath through the raiders, the rest are scrambling back onto their own ship to beat a hasty escape. A blood-spattered Alistair plants his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Well!” he says. “That was bracing.” 

“Are you getting soft on that throne?” Isabela teases, and Alistair looks down and pats his belly, shrugging. 

“I do get fed better,” he says, hooking one hand over Zevran’s mouth to smother whatever innuendo he’d been about to say. Zevran relaxes into it, eyes affectionate above Alistair’s fingers. “I’d forgotten what it was like, actually. How do you get anything done?”

“That’s a good question,” Hawke muses. She delicately wipes the blood off her face with one end of her flowy peach sleeve. “How did you become King?”

Alistair laughs as Zevran peels his hand away, holding it captive. “It’s all sort of…” He flaps his free hand vaguely. “A blur. Blight and all, you know how it is.” 

“I should hope _some_ of it was memorable,” Isabela says, just to see Alistair flush. 

Today has already been, that’s for certain. Hawke looks back at their little wedding arch, knocked askew by the brawl, and Carver shouldering it upright. “Shall we?” she asks. Zevran wipes his knives clean and squirrels them away again, straightening his flower crown and leading the way.

“I can’t wait,” Isabela agrees, and she takes Hawke’s hand. Around Hawke’s neck, Isabela’s earring dangles from a thin gold chain, the late afternoon sunlight making it shine.


End file.
